Chapter 3: Assassination

Lang Bai didn’t start to shoot up in height until he was around twelve or thirteen. Before that, he looked like a delicate little doll who would never grow up—his expression always innocent, his smile gentle, his eyes as clear as melting snow.

It had become routine for Lang Bai to crawl into Yuan Cheng’s bed at night. Given the soft, fragile, and childlike image he always projected, no one found it inappropriate. But one night, when Yuan Cheng casually rested his hand on the boy in his sleep, he suddenly noticed something was off. Where once his whole hand could easily wrap around the child’s tiny body, it now couldn’t. The boy’s bones and frame had begun to take on the early outlines of a young man.

In the span of just one year, Lang Bai had outgrown several sets of clothes. Yuan Cheng found it a little frustrating. He liked seeing the boy dressed in a specific brand of hoodie with a cap, cotton shorts, and white sneakers—the textbook image of a beautiful, well-kept boy. But the largest size in the children's line, a size sixteen, no longer fit him.

Yuan Cheng felt… unsettled.

The real trouble came one late night when a fire broke out in one of the Yuan family’s warehouses. A trusted subordinate rushed to report the incident. When Yuan Cheng turned on the light in a hurry, Lang Bai was curled up in his arms, gently snoring.

The subordinate shot a meaningful glance at the scene, and couldn't help sneaking a few more looks—until Yuan Cheng noticed and snapped,
“What are you looking at?”

The subordinate immediately withdrew his gaze. “N-nothing, sir!”

Following his line of sight to Lang Bai on the bed, Yuan Cheng’s expression darkened.
“What the hell are you thinking? That’s my son!”

It was then Yuan Cheng finally realized—his son had grown up. No matter boy or girl, a child that age shouldn’t be sleeping in the same bed as their father. Especially not a child this beautiful—so beautiful that even unbidden, people might entertain inappropriate thoughts.

One night, during a thunderstorm, Lang Bai knocked again at Yuan Cheng’s door, shivering. This time, Yuan Cheng refused to open it no matter how much he pleaded.

From outside came the boy’s trembling voice,
“Dad… Dad!”

The sound grated against Yuan Cheng’s nerves. In the adjoining room was Ziwen, a maid who had served him for years—gentle, mature, sharp-minded, the very picture of a virtuous woman. He called her using the private line.

“Bai Shao[1] is scared tonight,” he said. “Go keep him company.”

Everyone knew what “keep him company” meant—even if it wasn’t said aloud.

Lang Bai was already at that age. His older brother Yuan Zhui had been far more experienced by then. Yuan Cheng had never interfered in Zhui’s personal affairs. But this youngest son had grown up by his side. Now that he was older, it was inevitable—he couldn’t be sheltered forever.

Yuan Cheng only cared about whether the boy’s first time would be clean and safe, whether the woman was good enough—so he wouldn’t be misled down the wrong path.

Lying in bed, he heard the door to the outer room open gently. After a while, Ziwen’s soft voice came through,
“Don’t be afraid, Bai Shao. Let me take care of you, all right?”

Silence.

Yuan Cheng turned over in bed. A heat surged from deep inside his chest. He realized it might be a sleepless night.

But after a moment, he heard Lang Bai’s voice—cool and detached, with the calm arrogance of someone raised in privilege:
“You belong to my father. Get out.”

Yuan Cheng froze.

He vaguely heard Ziwen murmuring something in embarrassment, then the sound of a cabinet opening. She pulled out a blanket and laid it on the carpet, rustling for a while before falling quiet.

Yuan Cheng sat up abruptly and called the old butler.
“Go check on Bai Shao’s bedroom. See what he’s doing.”

The old butler returned after a short while, his voice a little awkward over the phone.
“Bai Shao is sleeping on the bed. Ziwen is on the floor. They’re not… together. Sir, Bai Shao is still young. He doesn’t understand these things yet.”

But Yuan Cheng thought: he definitely understands. Judging from that tone earlier, the boy knew everything.

Then why was he pretending not to? Was it shyness? Embarrassment? Or was he simply… not interested?

Yuan Cheng tossed and turned the entire night—one moment worried his son might have psychological issues with women, the next moment mocking himself for overthinking. Kids grow up eventually. Maybe it just wasn’t time yet.

Just as dawn began to break, Yuan Cheng finally drifted into a light sleep.

But in that half-conscious haze, a terrifying thought struck him like lightning:

—Have I been thinking too much about this child?

Have I started entertaining thoughts I shouldn’t even be having?

Yuan Cheng didn’t sleep a wink after that.

The next morning, he got up early and didn’t attend to any business. The first thing he did was summon Yuan Zhui’s private tutors and told them seriously:
“Bai Shao is grown now. From today on, have him join Yuan Zhui’s classes. Whatever Zhui studies, he studies too. But his health isn’t great, so don’t hold him to the same standards. I don’t expect much from him. Just take good care of him.”

The tutors were stunned. Everyone in the Yuan household knew the young master had always been raised personally by Yuan Cheng. His clothing, meals, art, and music—everything had been dictated by the patriarch’s own preferences. He had never hired a single tutor before.

Yuan Cheng cleared his throat.
“I’m busy now. No time.”

No one believed that.

It was true he had been extremely busy when he first took over the family, but things had settled in recent years. His rule over the Yuan enterprise was airtight. Countless think tanks and elite staff worked under him—what issue could possibly require his personal attention now, except maybe his youngest son’s studies?

The other children in the Yuan family barely saw their father once a year.

Only Lang Bai had stayed by Yuan Cheng’s side for eight whole years—from the time he was six and first brought into the household, until fourteen, when he bloomed into a strikingly handsome young man.

Then, suddenly, Yuan Cheng handed him off to a team of tutors, maids, and servants—as if he were a scorching-hot potato the infamous arms lord of Southeast Asia didn’t dare hold on to for another day.

After starting lessons with Yuan Zhui, the private tutors generally reported that young master Lang Bai was not as promising a student as the heir apparent. As expected of the scion of an elite criminal lineage, Yuan Zhui—at just seventeen or eighteen—already possessed the knowledge equivalent to a finance graduate. He spoke flawless English and French, carried himself with polish and maturity, and had inherited much of his father’s charisma and competence.

Lang Bai, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. Despite being born into a mafia family, he had an aversion to all things violent. He spent his days reading biographies and landscape art books, painting oils and playing the piano, never involving himself in the business side of things. He did, however, write beautiful calligraphy—an art in which he was surprisingly accomplished.

The tutors cautiously expressed their concerns, but Yuan Cheng was dismissive.
“This child was born to live like a young master. What’s the point in pushing him to achieve more? His older brother will look after him for the rest of his life.”

Even Yuan Zhui defended his younger brother.
“He’s still just a kid. Why should he need to understand so much so soon? Even if he spends his life painting and playing music, it’s not like the Yuan family can’t afford to support him.”

Yuan Zhui’s maternal family was a force to be reckoned with—he was the grandson of the famous Shipbuilding King. His late mother had been their only daughter and carried significant weight. With the backing of the Wang family and his own capability, Yuan Zhui’s status as heir was unshakable.

Everyone in the Yuan household knew: even ten Lang Bais wouldn’t threaten Yuan Zhui’s position. The younger son was simply born to a life of wealth and leisure. No one placed high expectations on him.

One sweltering afternoon in the summer, Yuan Cheng—on a whim—took both his sons to a firearms testing ground at one of their weapons development facilities. The heat was intense, and Yuan Zhui, dressed in a full suit, was nearly suffocating. As a century-old mafia family, the Yuans observed strict discipline: with their father present, even loosening a collar button would be seen as a breach of decorum. Yuan Cheng wouldn’t tolerate it.

In contrast, Lang Bai wore only a short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. His youthful frame was slender and delicate, and his exposed forearms gleamed pale under the sun, drawing attention despite himself. Yuan Zhui, drenched in sweat, couldn’t help sneaking glances at him, a strange thought arising in his mind: Why couldn’t he have been a girl instead? He’s so beautiful—how impressive it would be to take someone like that out in public.

Yuan Cheng had been resting with his eyes closed but happened to catch Yuan Zhui’s look through the rearview mirror. He froze for a second, then turned sharply and snapped,
“What are you looking at?”

Startled, Yuan Zhui quickly turned his head away.

Lang Bai had been gazing out the window. At his father’s tone, he turned his head back, confused, glancing between his displeased father and his flustered brother.

Yuan Cheng waved him off.
“Nothing to do with you.”

Lang Bai lowered his lashes and smiled gently at Yuan Cheng.
“Yes, Father.”

The strange emotions in Yuan Cheng’s heart only began to subside once they arrived at the firing range.

The manager of the range had been waiting with his team for most of the day. When the car pulled up, he rushed out to greet them, first escorting Yuan Cheng and Yuan Zhui inside, then hastily setting up a sofa, cooling mats, fruit trays, and tea to seat the youngest young master in comfort.

Everyone knew Lang Bai didn’t care for guns. All he had to do was sit quietly and watch his father and brother.

Yuan Cheng took two rounds, then watched as his eldest son fired sixty sheets’ worth of targets. Seemingly in good spirits, he casually called over to Lang Bai,
“Ah Bai, come fire a few shots for your father.” Then to the manager, “Old Hu, give him a Type 77. The recoil on the 64 is too much—don’t want him breaking a shoulder.”

Old Hu personally presented a Type 77 with a smile.
“Young Master Lang, give it a try. The 77’s known as the ‘agent’s gun’ in the mainland—small, light, very little kick. We’ve even fine-tuned the ballistics. It’d be great if you helped us test the results.”

Lang Bai picked it up carelessly, raised it casually toward the target—bang—a shot. Eight rings.

The scoring system at this range measured down to the decimal. Eight rings was a rather embarrassing result. Several staff members politely lowered their heads, pretending not to notice.

Lang Bai didn’t seem to mind. His second shot didn’t even reach eight.
“Seven point nine rings,” one staffer reported, voice strained.

Yuan Cheng laughed and handed the pistol to his eldest son.
“Let’s not force your brother. You try it.”

Yuan Zhui immediately took the gun, said nothing, and fired off a series of shots—bang, bang, bang—each one squarely in the bullseye.

Lang Bai smiled,
“Big Brother, you’re amazing!”

Yuan Zhui’s heart gave a jolt. Just as he was about to modestly reply, a sudden change overtook the scene.

A bodyguard’s face shifted. He lunged and shoved Lang Bai to the ground. Another bodyguard tackled Yuan Zhui before he could react. Two loud gunshots rang out from behind. Yuan Zhui could feel the bullets pass just inches from the back of his skull.

An assassin!

Old Hu shouted,
“Quick! Shield Mr. Yuan!”

Yuan Zhui looked for his father—Yuan Cheng was already surrounded by his elite G4 bodyguards. Unless bullets could pierce layers of human shields, nothing would touch him.

Just as Yuan Zhui exhaled in relief, Lang Bai stood calmly, picked up the discarded Type 77, and—bang, bang—fired two precise bursts in the direction of the gunman. His movements were fluid, serene—so much so that Yuan Zhui was reminded of how his brother practiced calligraphy: graceful, composed, unwavering.

Yuan Zhui was frozen in place. It took him several seconds to wrench his gaze toward the attacker. The motion was so abrupt he nearly strained his neck.

His otherworldly, delicate little brother—who had always seemed too gentle for the world—had just coldly and accurately shot through both arms of the assassin.

The man collapsed to his knees. Both arms useless, his gun fell to the side.

He was one of the range’s staff—likely bribed. No one had suspected a thing, not even Old Hu.

Old Hu went pale and dropped to his knees.

Lang Bai gently set the gun aside and said to the stunned bodyguards,
“Tie him up and take him away. Post more guards on him.”

The bodyguards jolted back to life.
“Yes, sir!”

Lang Bai added lightly,
“Make sure he doesn’t die.”

“…Understood!”

Yuan Zhui stared at his brother in shock—as if seeing him for the very first time.

And he wasn’t alone. All around them, the Yuan family’s subordinates looked at Lang Bai with expressions that defied description. As though, only now, they were seeing the young master for who he really was—not just the delicate child who painted, played piano, and raised birds.

Lang Bai took a cold towel from the hands of a stunned servant and slowly wiped his hands. His fingers were long, pale, perfectly manicured—each fingertip soft and pink, delicate as spring onions, beautiful as a maiden’s.

“This is boring,” he said indifferently. “I’m done. Father, let’s go home.”

Yuan Cheng stared at his youngest son for a long time, silently. After a while, he finally nodded, patted Lang Bai’s shoulder, and said,

“…Alright. Let’s go.”

[1] Young master

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